Death and the Harlot by Georgina Clarke

Author:Georgina Clarke
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788634533
Publisher: Canelo Digital Publishing Ltd
Published: 2019-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-six

I could not hear birds when I woke the next morning. It was their absence that made me think of home again.

When I was a child, I would wake with the birds and make every effort to be outside in the open air. My mother died when I was very small, but I had a governess who was almost a mother to me; happy to indulge me, seeing every blade of grass and every insect as an opportunity for learning. She taught me to look, to observe and to understand what I saw by research and by contemplation. The sky was above me, the fields spread before me and the whole world was mine to study and enjoy. Then, one day, she found a husband, and was gone, and my father took charge of my education.

My two older brothers taught me to ride, dragging me out on wild adventures that muddied my gowns and boots, and blew the wind through my hair. And then, becoming young men, they too had left, while I remained at home.

My father was the rector of a rich and pleasant living; there were many opportunities for enjoying social intercourse with local families. But my father, concerned at the streak of wilfulness that he discerned in me, counselled me to cultivate a quiet and godly demeanour. Wilfulness led to disobedience, wantonness, and ruin. He lectured me often on this. I had tried my best to curb the desire for adventure but had embroidered cushions and read improving sermons with increasing agitation.

I was beginning to feel the urge and swell of lust, but I hadn’t known, in those days, quite what it was. I was frustrated; constrained by home. My father should have encouraged me towards a sensible marriage. Instead he sent me, when I had just turned eighteen, to stay with my aunt. Aunt Anne, who did not enjoy good health, was in need of a companion. All was well – if excessively dull – until my uncle arrived home from London.

My father spoke of his older brother Francis as a libertine, a devil, but adored him nevertheless. Francis was equally full of devotion to my father. Despite this, and being the devil, my uncle decided that his niece was just to his taste and set out to relieve me of my burdensome innocence, knowing, with uncanny insight, just how much I wanted to discard it. I was fascinated by him, and foolishly imagined that I knew what I was doing – not recognising that I was dealing with such an experienced player of the game. Once I had given myself willingly to him, then, like the devil, he preyed on my growing shame and regret, threatening to tell my father every time he came to my bed, reminding me of how far I had transgressed, how I thrown myself at him like a cheap slut from the streets.

He taught me my trade; taught me every trick I know.

I had been forced to learn.

At least now the devils I deal with must pay me for their pleasure.

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